


Gravitation

by piningfrench, Spark_Writer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Freeform, M/M, Sad, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:10:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piningfrench/pseuds/piningfrench, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spark_Writer/pseuds/Spark_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The profile in front of him flashed a smile so fleeting he thought he’d imagined it, those gorgeous pupils changing colour in the early light, cutting through his core. <br/>Sherlock answered in that deep voice of his: “Follow me.”<br/>It always ended like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravitation

> _I love you like you never felt the pain, I'll wait._
> 
> _I promise you don't have to be afraid, I'll wait._
> 
> _The love is here and here to stay, so lay your head on me._
> 
> _[…]_
> 
> _'Cause little do you know I,_
> 
> _love you till the sun dies._
> 
> _(Alex & Sierra – Little do you know)_

** Gravitation **

  _It was strange_ , John thought, gazing through the window of their flat and considering the turn his life had taken. Maybe he had never really moved forward, after all. The skull on the mantelpiece. The smiley face upon the wallpaper. The chemical solutions scattered with the jam. Maybe they had always been a part of him, because when he truly thought about it, nothing had ever made him feel so alive. The cold nights spent in a rented room at an inexpensive price with the bitter taste of sweat on his lips and the cold metal of a gun barrel between his teeth seemed far away already. He repressed a shiver at the thought of the number of times he’d believed the subsequent nothingness would be preferable to the one he was already facing. Each time he heard the metallic chink of his cane on asphalt, John had sworn he could see the gap beneath his feeting opening a bit wider. _Yes, quite strange_ , he decided, passing a distracted hand through his greying hair. Strange that a single person could enter his life and make all the vivid colours of the world brighter, give new sensation to the wind against his skin, make adrenaline scream through his veins like holy water, make him laugh in London’s gloomiest alleyways whilst in pursuit of a serial killer. Ridiculous, yet so luminescent.

*

     They were walking shoulder-to-shoulder on a crowded street when the silhouette vibrating excitement and concentration at his side stopped suddenly. “What is it?” asked John, also stopping abruptly. The profile in front of him flashed a smile so fleeting he thought he’d imagined it, those gorgeous pupils changing colour in the early light, cutting through his core. Sherlock answered in that deep voice of his: “Follow me.” It always ended like this. The detective framed by his Belstaff turning back and John running after him, always asking for more, more air in his lungs, more of the excitement that lit a fire in his chest, more of the make me feel alive. The world around him slowed and disappeared, leaving nothing more than the vague humming of his heart in his ears and shallows breaths in his throat. A smile cracked John’s lips while the figure in front of him continued to bolt, and he thought, never stop. He prayed the intoxication would never end, that this spark, this lightning strike of a genius by his side would one day die with him, because he did not want to taste a life without Sherlock Holmes.

*

     The words ran between them, vibrating notes of a melancholic and deafening symphony, which crashed upon them like merciless waves. The world stopped spinning, but seemed to reach the speed of a comet simultaneously. The silence floating about them only strengthened their power, the truth which poured from them; invisible, but nevertheless so tangible. The three words had not exceeded the volume of a rustle, but filled the air as though they’d been roared, their impact leaving the pair breathless. John was struck at once by both the aptness and the inaccuracy, because no words in any human language came close to the truth. It was the way Sherlock drained the air of a room in which he was present, and gave brilliance to the world with the violence of his mind. It was like inhaling oxygen after a life spent trying to survive in heavy smoke. Like jumping off a cliff and being lost in dark waters then finally seeing daylight at the surface. It was terrible. It was powerful. It was addicting.

It was living.

      Two magnets could repel and attract each other. The sun disappeared in favour of the moon. Peace followed the storm. But who said these two entities couldn’t merge ?

      Their bodies collided, flesh wishing nothing more than to become a single form. It was too much, yet not enough. More, more. Their breaths mixed, their skin stuck in a pressing embrace. John’s lips sought to memorize every inch of Sherlock’s flesh; collided against a jaw, a throat of ivory. Violinist's hands lifted John’s chin, placed swollen lips against his, sent such a burst of energy through his nervous system he thought he was going to explode in millions of pieces. How could anyone make him feel this matchless and whole at the same time? His arms tightened around Sherlock, shifting them closer to the point where their chests rose against the other. A torrent of the incomprehensible seemed to drift into his ears, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered but the hands caressing his neck, the wild curls between his fingertips. Nothing but the brilliant eyes, a gleaming supernova of lust and love, which said: "You are mine". And John would not have cared less if he’d become blind after that.

*

      Their life still consisted of The Race, of nights searching for crimes scenes, of the comfort of a Browning in the back pocket of John’s jeans, of sleepless nights spent in each other’s arms wishing it would never end and that eternity was theirs. They were magnificent, passionate, alive.

Time passed.

Seasons lapsed and returned.

The Race continued.

      They were running again, through mist and darkness. The felon escaped. John ran, his steps noisy against the pavement, and smiled when he thought of the fact that nothing could stop them. He was alone now, because Sherlock had taken the street running parallel so their suspect was surrounded. The suspect stopped suddenly, when John perceived rather than saw in front of him the long swishing coat, and his smile widened when his eyes met his lover's. The spectral light gave Sherlock an arrogant look, the collar of his coat stroking the outline of his face and creating sharp contrast with his pale skin. He was so beautiful that John was rendered breathless for a moment.

      He did not see the criminal turning around, only the excitement in Sherlock’s bright pupils being masked with a sudden, inexplicable horror. John frowned.

      He glanced down and saw the black prong of a knife handle jutting from his half-opened jacket. The sound of quick footsteps echoed in the silence. A small, "Oh", escaped him, then he collapsed against the wall behind. His eyes were fixed to the halo that widened in the center of his jumper, he he blinked hastily to dissipate the dregs of a possible hallucination. Soft, strong hands took his face between them, forcing him to lock gazes with the man by his side, always here, who wouldn't leave him. Never. John smiled again, more weakly this time, and rested his forehead against the hollow of Sherlock’s translucent throat. It seemed the sleuth was shouting overhead, calling for help. But it was all right, it really was.

Everything would be just fine.

     They were together, and the smell of chemicals and shampoo invading John’s nostrils calmed his already too-low pulse. He found himself sprawled on the ground, and calmly observed the face peering down at him, which was streaked with tears and meaningless words. John lifted a heavy hand towards one of those impossible cheekbones and wiped away the brilliant tears under the light of the stars. The mist above their heads had vanished and the stars looked like those John had so often noticed in his lover’s blue-grey eyes. Sherlock whispered, “No,” again and again, while brushing his thumbs against John’s cheeks and eyebrows, as though he could turn back time and protect him from harm. John whispered, "It's okay," because it was. He’d never felt so alive as he did with this brilliant man, blinding as the glare of sunlight. Sherlock's shoulders shook and John frowned, because Sherlock didn’t have to be afraid. It was all part of the game, wasn't it ? Sherlock was always asking for that, so why was he so upset ? He was a selfish soul, John knew, but he would be okay. He was Sherlock Holmes, the racing mind, the young genius.

Untouchable.

Loved.

Of course he would be okay.

     John knew what he had to do, because that’s what people did, didn't they ? Express what needed to be spoken while there was still time. He whispered the three words again, again and again and again, until he was uttering nothing more than a litany which he recited half-heartedly. Wet lips brushed softly against his, and John smiled. His eyelids became heavy, fluttered for a moment, then closed. And he wondered how he’d ever believed there was a nothingness after this. He saw only the incredible fusion of a shining mind and the stars; felt the greatness of a galaxy and a heart beating fast against his.

Really.

He had never been so alive.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'd want to thank Claire. Words fail me to tell you how much I'm glad to know the talented writer and beautiful human being you are. Thank you for being such an inspiration. You helped me to improve myself, encouraged me and I'm grateful.   
>  This is my first attempt to write fanfiction ever. These two idiots had to be the ones who started it all. They deserve the best.
> 
> And thanks to you who took the time to read this x


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